


Finally

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3104816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After seeing a musical about their lives, Sam is totally onboard with <i>CasDean</i>. Dean isn't. It isn't until after a little bit of 'wing kink' does Dean finally realize that maybe, <i>maybe</i>, <i>CasDean</i> actually exists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finally

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muirgen258](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muirgen258/gifts).



He'd seen some shit in his life, ranging from unsettling to downright disturbing. On the shallow end of that scale was the Mark of Cain and becoming a demon... he'd had worse cases of food poisoning. Seeing a victim that'd been chewed to the bone was more of a heartburn's level of discomfort than the nightmare-inducing experience it should've been. Dispatching monsters, cutting off the heads of vampires? All in a day's work. His childhood home in flames topped the charts, followed by Sammy holding his first shotgun at nine years old because he wanted to be a "hero" like his big brother. Those two things paled in comparison to watching Dad's body burn by the rites of a hunter's funeral and his trip to Hell. Everything else was a blur in between. 

Just two days ago, after watching girls put on a play about his shitty life, he'd found another thing to add to his list: him and Cas. Together. Where it fit on the scale, he didn't know.

A shudder ran down his spine as if his body had decided for him. Dean cracked the Impala's window to let the night's fresh air in, taking comfort in the thick blackness surrounding them. Out here in rural Colorado, there was nothing but miles and miles of asphalt ahead of them, illuminated by his baby's headlights. He was right where he wanted to be: on the road, headed anywhere, with Sam in the passenger seat.

Dean flicked his brother a glance. Sam squinted at his cell phone's screen, and its blue glow cast a ghostly pallor over his face. It was creepy as fuck, unsettling even, because his baby brother looked dead—save for the mischievous grin that spread over his mouth right then. Over their long years on the road together, he'd grown to know that look. It was the same smile he'd seen right before Sam gave him cake instead of pie, the same twinkle in his eye when Sam had filled the pages of his favorite _Busty Asian Beauties_ mag with pictures of dudes fucking. Dean scowled preemptively, knowing that when Sam finally opened his mouth, he wouldn't like it. Not one bit.

Sam guffawed. "So, get this. This whole 'CasDean' _thing_ is a thing on the Internet."

He was right. Didn't like it one bit.

"Did you know there's fan fiction about you guys?" Sam didn't wait for an answer. "Listen to this one... _Dean discovers Castiel has a weakness; he loves having his wings touched. Curiosity leaves Dean and Castiel in a situation they never expected... and things get a little heated._ "

Dean swerved to avoid— _something_ , when in truth, his hands slipped off the wheel. They exchanged scowls, both expressions half-startled, half-pissed. Sam was the first to recover, turning his eyes back to his phone. His little brother's face brightened up and took on another shade of mischievous blue. "Dude, this one's explicit... I think that means you guys get it on." Sam narrowed his eyes, his face screwing up in confusion. "What's 'wing kink'?"

He snatched the phone away and threw it in the back seat. It hit the back door with a note of anger and finality that Sam didn't seem to get. His sasquatch of a brother made a move for it, and was shoulder-deep between the seats when the car swerved. Hard. Sam squawked and jerked into the front, hands splayed wide.

"Squirrel," Dean lied, which earned him a glare. "You try for that phone again and it's going out the goddamn window. Got it?"

Eye-daggers shot into his neck, but he ignored it. Concentrated on the road instead, and _not_ on the thought of him and Cas together... doing... whatever-the-fuck wing kink was. He grimaced and opened the window a little more. An icy torrent of air stripped his brain of anything else other than how fucking cold it was. Sam leaned forward to blast the heat rebelliously. For a half hour, they said nothing. Dean kept his eyes on the road, and Sam stared out the window, jaw etched in a tough-guy line. They passed signs that said Durango was just up ahead, and sure enough, after another half hour, a sprinkle of city lights topped the horizon like a festive cupcake. Soon, they were surrounded by streets and traffic lights, by squat-looking houses with cars in driveways, and dark, long shadows for lawns. Christmas lights outlined some of the roofs and fences, and as if on cue, the radio fizzled in, pouring out a soft rendition of _Silent Night_ through the speakers. 

"It's that time of year again," he said flatly.

"Christmas is tomorrow, Dean."

Sam's tone was the Bob Cratchit to his Ebenezer Scrooge; reverent of the holiday, quiet, and with an edge of sadness that made Dean glance at him. His brother stared out the window, his face mostly blank, but showed his hand of cards in the slump of his shoulders. Dean didn't miss the small, almost inaudible sigh that came out of his younger brother's mouth. He swallowed down regret, and returned his eyes to the road.

"We never liked Christmas anyway."

"Sure," Sam said quietly.

The hollowness in his brother's voice told him he was the only one who felt that way.

:::

The case in Durango was his favorite kind: open-and-shut—easily solved, dispatched, and left behind. That'd been two days ago. Now, they were minutes from the bunker, and the sight of the all too familiar road leading to it filled him with a sense of ease only home could give him. He parked the Impala in the bunker's impressive garage, got out, and took in the collection of old cars. Even went as far as taking in a deep breath. Sam snorted, probably rolled his eyes, but he didn't care. He made it a point to appreciate what they had, while they had it, every time he could. Everything could change in a matter of seconds. They knew that better than anyone.

Sam led the charge into the bunker, hauling grocery bags in his meaty hands. Dean patted baby on her hood and quickly followed suit. Somehow, he wrestled the pie bag away from his much larger brother with little protest. He stuck his nose in to take a whiff—a perfect time for Sam to suddenly stop and for Dean to slam into him, nearly crushing his apple pie. Dean couldn't get out a complaint before he saw _him_ , standing down on the bunker's main floor, looking up at the winding staircase. Just leaning back on one of the tables as if he belonged there, as if he hadn't been missing for fucking _days_. 

"Uh, hey, Cas," Sam said lightly. "Long time no see."

"Sam," Cas said by way of greeting. 

Dean averted his eyes before Cas could look up and fix him with that stare of his. It didn't matter, though—

"Hello, Dean."

—because that voice of his would always do things to him his brain would never understand. Dean ignored the warmth pooling in his gut and trudged down the winding staircase. He didn't look at Cas when he moved past him and into the kitchen, depositing his pie bag like a dead weight. Taking a breath, he flattened his palms against the cool counter. Its temperature did nothing to soothe his frazzled nerves. Nor did Sam, who flopped down the groceries and made him jump.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

Dean shot him a glare, turned around, and stalked out of the kitchen. Cas hadn't moved from his angelic repose, hands spread wide over the desk with his spine angled back. Like James Bond, casually waiting for the bad guy to show up, looking clean-cut and sexy as hell—not that _Cas_ was any of those things. No, he looked more disheveled than he usually was, with dark circles under his eyes as deep as freshly dug graves. He wasn't leaning because he felt he rightfully belonged here. Cas was trying to keep himself from falling over. More startling was his eyes. Kansas sky blue had been replaced with a listless gray, like fog had rolled in and sucked the color out of him. Dean did everything he could to stay in place, to keep himself from running over to Cas and patch him up anyway he could. 

He clenched his jaw, and Cas dropped his eyes out of habit.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?"

"Away."

The warmth that had settled in his stomach turned to ice. Dean clenched his hands into fists. He should've punched him out right then, but Cas' ragged exhale stopped him dead.

"Y'think?" Dean took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "What was it this time? Another Apocalypse? Heaven knocking on your door—"

"Angels."

"Yeah? What'd they want?" It wasn't a question. It was an accusation. "Look, man. I don't know what your deal is. But you can't just..." _Leave me_. Dean clenched his jaw and pointed a finger at him. "Next time you fly the coop, you say somethin', all right? _Anything_. You got both our numbers. Use 'em."

Scolding him like a child, giving him an order—it was his way of telling Cas he'd been worried, that for the past few nights he hadn't sleep a wink because he didn't know if Cas was dead or alive. Without another word, Dean turned his back on him. He planned to leave him there, make him think over what'd he done, but found himself stopping when Cas let out a soft sigh. His body tuned in like a radio that had finally found its signal.

"I had a mission," Cas said. "My brothers and sisters... I had to help them. They needed me."

"Yeah?" Dean turned around. "Well, we need you too. You ever think about that?"

Cas let out another exhale. Despair and weariness seemed to rush in and fill the empty places left behind. His shoulders sagged and his head lolled as if he had lost all the strength in his neck. There were shades of surrender in the dull blue of his eyes. For a moment, Cas simply closed them. Dean found himself wanting to go to him again, somehow become Cas' sole source of strength and support. He anchored his feet on the floor instead. 

"I need to rest." Cas opened his eyes and fixed him with look that nearly melted the steely unforgiving parts of him. "Somewhere safe."

There was an unspoken question in his statement. Dean clenched his jaw for a moment. He couldn't turn Cas away, not again, not in a million years. Not when Cas needed him. But instead of answering with an emphatic yes, Dean shrugged and said, "Hey, this is your home, too. Have at it." Like it didn't matter if he stayed or not.

It mattered.

Cas hovered at his table and notched his chin down. He wasn't ready for the smile that spread over Cas' lips right then. Small and quiet, like it was meant for no one but himself. Completely endearing. Totally Cas. Infectious as hell. Dean smiled too before he could stop himself. He would've said something dumb, like, _Glad you're back, buddy_ , but made the mistake of glancing at his brother first. Sam's face was lit up like a Christmas tree, grin as wide as it was dumb. Sam looked at him, then at Cas, and back again. The smile got even bigger.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You mind?"

"Nah, not really," Sam returned. Smart-ass. 

"Get outta here," Dean snapped. "Go do something useful."

That smile went out like a light bulb, leaving Sam frowning and rolling his eyes. He left the room, but not without saying, "Good to have you back, Cas."

"Thank you, Sam."

"Make sure my pie is in the frig!" Dean hollered.

The sound of his brother's heavy moose feet faded away, and the silence rolled in. They were alone, surrounded by a space that suddenly seemed too big for them. Cas looked down the hallway Sam had gone, expression on the concerned side of serious and nearly unreadable. "Something wrong with Sam?"

"Yeah, poor bastard's seeing stuff that ain't there." _CasDean_ kinda stuff.

"Ah, I see." Cas quirked a brow. "Kevin?"

"Sure. Look, man. Why don't you go get some shut eye. You look like hell."

Cas pursed his lips together and nodded. On his way by, Cas brushed against him, and fuck if his arm didn't light up in a million ways that didn't make sense. Only when Cas was out of sight did he dare take another breath.

:::

For the rest of that morning, Dean caught glimpses of Cas in between what he assumed were glorified angel naps. Periods of time when Cas would be holed up in his room, lights off, door closed. He didn't think angels slept, but when Cas emerged from his room after lunch, bleary eyed from sleep, he began to doubt Cas was an angel at all.

Dean watched him flop into a stool at the kitchen's counter. Blue eyes laser focused on his half-empty bag of Doritos. Cas' stomach growled; that was the only explanation for the sound, deep and angry as it was. Frowning, Cas looked down, then up at him. Helplessly. 

"You hungry?"

Cas nodded, looking sheepish, almost ashamed of his humanity. He looked vulnerable, with his hair more mussed up than it usually was, with his clothes hanging off him, wrinkled. A dark strand of hair had fallen in Cas' face, and he wanted to brush it aside if for no other reason than to touch him, to make sure he was real. Here. _Alive_. Something welled up in his throat, and Dean swallowed it down. He forked over his bag of chips just to give his hands something to do. At first, Cas hesitated, then took the bag in his hands. It didn't take long for orange cheese dust to cover his mouth.

Cas started licking his fingers. Dean had to turn away. 

"You human?" Dean asked out of nowhere.

"I don't know." 

Cas quieted all of a sudden and frowned. He started picking at the insides of the chip bag, desperately searching for cheesy dust, to keep his mind off things possibly, and it was Dean's cue get to work. He pulled jars of peanut butter and jelly from the cupboards, and covered two slices of bread with the stuff nice and thick. The sandwich hadn't lasted two seconds on the plate before Cas snatched it up and took a bite.

"I eat..." Cas said, continuing their conversation. "I sleep... I defecate." Cas did something very human then: he shrugged. "But I still have some semblance of my grace left. I can feel it inside me... fading."

"So, you're in some kind of... angel limbo?"

"Possibly."

Dean nodded, then shrugged. "Well, it's not your first rodeo."

"No, it isn't."

_But it still sucks._

He could hear the words in the space between his breaths, see it in the stormy blue of his eyes. They weren't sparkling anymore, but muddled, like he was thinking too much, too often, or as if the world around him was too heavy to bear.

Cas continued eating while Dean watched him. He let his eyes roam over Cas' face, the slight paleness to it, the way he hunched into his food like he hadn't eaten for a millennia. It reminded him of the first time Cas had become human, vulnerable and uncertain, with a pissy attitude and bravery that made him swell with pride. Now, Cas was less attitude and not as ornery as he had been back then. Like _life_ had taken its toll on him.

Life wasn't a fan of _easy_.

A long finger wiped up a glob of peanut butter. Cas stuck the digit in his mouth and sucked, and Dean nearly choked on the beer he'd swiped from the frig. He cleared his throat when Cas looked up at him quizzically. "Sam said you liked those... uh, PB&Js. Or did anyway," he stammered dumbly.

Cas nodded and stared down at his empty plate. "It tasted like molecules... and jam."

"Molecules and jam," Dean repeated hastily. "Better than shit, I guess."

Dean grabbed the plate and turned away, dropping it in the sink. He stood there, dazed, before he cleared his throat again and said, "I'll make you a hamburger later."

"I'd like that, thank you."

He didn't miss the smile in Cas' voice. He wanted to see it, see his best friend happy, but didn't dare look over his shoulder. "Get some more rest. I'll come get you when it's time for dinner."

The stool scraped against the floor. There was a pause. Dean held his breath and closed his eyes.

"Dean..."

"Yeah." His voice was hoarse.

"Thank you... for everything."

Dean raised two fingers in acknowledgement. "No problem."

He didn't hear Cas leave. Didn't care to look to see if he had. Hips pressed to the kitchen cabinet, Dean nursed his beer... and ignored the heat that had grown between his legs.

:::

At dinner time, Dean called him three times and sent him five text messages. Cas didn't show up. 

So Dean went looking for him. 

His steps were heavy in the hallway, echoing off the walls and tiles as he walked hard and with purpose toward Cas' room. Like all the other times he'd passed by during the day, there was no light under Cas' closed bedroom door. He put his ear to it and frowned. Nothing. No signs of life. He knocked, but nothing came of it. 

"Cas? You in there?" He sounded impatient.

No answer.

Dean squeezed his fingers to stop himself from punching a hole through the door. He settled himself with another breath and cracked the door open. Inside, it was dark. A spear of light cut through the room, but it did nothing to chase away the shadows. They hovered over Cas' form like monsters, and Dean had to convince himself that Cas wasn't really in trouble. He honed in on anything _Cas_ anyway, and when he heard it, the easy rhythm of Cas' breathing, he let out the air in his lungs. Cas was okay. The darkness hadn't eaten him up.

He followed the light from the doorway to the bed and sat on the edge. The hamburger he'd made—all the fixings, just how Cas liked it—was getting cold. Sam said it was the best thing he'd ever cooked, and Dean wanted to share that with Cas. But at what expense? He watched Cas sleep for a minute or two, debating.

With his back facing him, Cas was bundled up in a nest of covers. Twisted up like maybe it was too cold in here. Dean made a note to check the thermostat. He could do it right now, let Cas sleep, but found he couldn't move. He caught himself staring at Cas, watching him take in quiet breaths as something... sour coiled in his gut. Like reality was finally sinking in. Last he knew, Cas was dying, and he didn't belong on Death's doorstep with his bags packed, ticket punched. He wanted Cas to get better. Grace or not; angel, human—it didn't matter. _Here_ and _alive_ , and with a foreseeable future was good enough. 

Too bad life wasn't a fan of _fair_ , either.

Dean watched him a little more, then mentally prepared himself to stand up, and almost did when Cas let out a soft sigh. Once again, his body tuned in like Cas was the meaning of his entire existence. He stayed until Cas' breathing settled, soft and rhythmic, then stood up from the bed. Something stopped him from leaving.

At first, he didn't know what to make of it. He stared for a while, studying the distortion over Cas' body and comparing it to everything he knew about monsters, curses, witches, _everything_. Nothing matched up. The air above Dad's burning body had had a similar distortion, just like all camp and raging forest fires did. Hovering over Cas like that made it seem out of place. Cas wasn't burning. He wasn't on fire.

Not that he could see.

Drawn to it, Dean sat back down and studied it. It crowded around Cas like whatever it was sought his warmth. Maybe it was a monster he hadn't seen before, draining whatever Grace Cas had left. 

Maybe it was killing him.

His hand shot out instinctively, without fear or remorse, and hit something... solid. His fingers floated in midair, touching nothing, but feeling... _something_. It was familiar. Soft yet rigid, bending under his touch in certain places, unyielding in others. It was both cool and, as he slid his hand farther up, hot, like it was _alive_. 

It felt like...

Muscle. Feathers.

_Wings_.

He tried to snatch his hand back, but it was too late. Pillowy blackness exploded in front of his eyes, slipping soft and gentle against his face. With an undignified squawk, Dean jerked back off the bed and hit the floor like a sack of flour. He hurt in a lot of places, but ignored the pain, sitting there, wide eyed, looking up and around.

They were _enormous_. Cas' wings... they were...

_Real_. 

... and battered.

Dean angled back on his hands and stared. He should've seen white, glorious wings like those drawn in the ancient tomes Sam had found in the library. Wingspan large and impressive, feathers perfect and gleaming. The similarities stopped with the size of his wingspan. The wings took up most of the space in the room, and loomed large and breathtaking. But few feathers were pristine. They weren't white or glorious. 

They were the wings of a sick angel.

Or a dying one.

Gray feathers hung off him like tattered lace. Their ends black as if they'd been dipped in ink. It reminded him of a plant Sam tried to take care of when he was little. He could remember its stem; green where it was alive, the tip of it yellowish-black with decay. That's how he saw Cas' feathers; gray and alive, black and dead. Broken and burnt in places, torn and hopeless in others. 

The gravity of it all crushed him.

Dean took a deep breath, his chest heavy, weighted, and picked himself off the floor. Like Moses, he parted the gray-and-black sea of feathers and found a spot on the bed. Softness vied for space around him, and his skin lit up with it. Whatever moment of enjoyment he got out of the feathers touching him disappeared. He looked at the black, dead feather on his lap, then turned to Cas' wingspan as a whole. There were thick patches here and there, with feathers as black as pitch, feathers broken and utterly useless. He wasn't a smooth talker like Sam, but he was good with his hands. He could fix the feathers. 

He could fix Cas.

He reached out before he could stop himself.

His fingers closed around a black feather. It was soft and tickled his skin. Like a dog shedding tufts of winter fur, it readily came out in his hand with a little pull. He looked at it closely in the soft light, touching it along the edges. The feather shimmered with greens and blues and purples, and looked beautiful as it floated to the floor weightlessly. Dean watched it flutter and slip under the bed, then settled in and went to work.

When Sam was a kid in high school, Dean helped him with a science project about birds. Flight patterns, songs, and anatomy, parts of a feather included. Dean mumbled the words aloud as he went along, licking his fingers and dragging them along the _vane_ of another gray feather to straighten all the little _barbs_. Somehow, it looked like a normal feather after he was done with it, pristine and perfect like it'd never been damaged in the first place. It was just the amount of encouragement he needed to soldier on, attacking each feather with finesse he didn't know he had. Finesse and _too_ much eagerness. He accidentally pulled too hard, and a feather—gray and healthy—fell out in his hands. Dean froze and looked at Cas. Guilt bit his cheeks red, but that wasn't the whole problem.

Cas had stopped breathing.

Wound up like a spring, Cas' muscles looked rigid to him, and he was completely still as if a monster had come out of his closet. _Don't move and it'll go away_ , his body said. Dean took in stale air and watched him, fingers holding the pristine feather like it'd been a beloved family pet. Finally, Cas moved, lowering his shoulder to peek over it. His eyes sparkled darkly in the soft light, with something he hadn't seen in them before. It was an emotion he couldn't place, but it was startling, intense. It stirred something in Dean he didn't want to name.

"What are you doing?" Cas asked quietly.

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but his throat had gone dry. He licked his lips and said, "I was... uh..." He didn't know, and he stammered stupidly. "... I—" He swallowed. "Uh, this fell out. Sorry."

He laid the feather on his hip like a sacrifice and made a move to stand. He'd fucked up. He had to get out of here. Cas grabbed him by the wrist. Their eyes met and Dean held his breath.

"Don't stop."

_Please_ was implied in his tone. It was desperate, as if Dean fixing his wings was his only road to salvation. His fingers were moving again, under a spell he had no control over. Cas needing him was as powerful and destructive as the Mark of Cain had been. Instead of killing, and loving it, he smoothed over Cas' feathers and felt more satisfied, more fulfilled, than when he drank, watched porn, or fucked.

And it was through this, grooming him, that he'd apologize for everything he'd ever done.

He plucked dead feathers for the sisters and brothers Cas had lost over the years. Tamed a gray one because Cas had chosen him over his own family, another one for going through the trouble of pulling him out of Hell. Black feathers were gently pulled and thrown from the bed for Purgatory, making Cas give up his angel army, and two more for tossing Cas out of the bunker without help, contacts, or food. His sins fell from his fingers in droves, touching down on the floor and making a blanket of sorrows he couldn't begin to clean up. Things he'd never forgive himself for.

But Cas wasn't thinking about all that, he figured, watching him as he pulled yet another black feather from the grays. Cas angled his head into the pillow, and his whole body heaved with a breath. Maybe he'd hurt him yet again, as always. Maybe Cas didn't like having his wings touched. Maybe he hated it. He wouldn't be angry if his every touch made Cas sick. It wouldn't be the first time.

"You let me know if this hurts."

Instead of responding verbally, Cas nodded a lot before he pressed his face into his pillow a little bit more. Cas didn't look comfortable. His muscles were too tight, his body too controlled as if he were holding something back—maybe even a cry of pain. To soothe him, Dean held back on removing dead feathers and simply raked his fingers through gray vanes. But Cas tensed up even more, burying his head so far into the pillow, he'd pop out the other side before the night was through. With no other choice, he let up on that too, before he stopped altogether. It only took Cas a second to realize it. He whipped his head up and threw him a wild look. And it was so intense, so... breathtaking, that Dean just sat there, stunned.

"Why did you stop?"

Dean swallowed. "You looked like you were in pain, Cas."

"I'm not in pain," Cas said quickly, hoarsely.

His voice was full of _something_ he couldn't decipher. It was in his eyes too, rigid in his muscles and raw on his face. It was crackling energy. It was the thrill of lightning striking too close. Cas watched him intently—the wolf to his rabbit—and only relaxed when Dean began touching his wings again. The soft, even raking motion had Cas sighing, and the sound made his own dick twitch. Dean stopped touching him and sucked in a ragged breath. It earned him another swift glance. An unspoken question passed between them and there were no answers. Just the unsettling quiet of the room and Cas' slightly elevated breathing.

"Dean..."

He blinked and continued on auto-pilot. Pulling, combing while he racked his brain. His body's reaction—it wasn't like that with them. Dean liked women, only women, yet somehow... no. He wasn't into Cas. That was that.

Then Cas let out a moan.

It cut to his core. His hands lost control and spasmed, jerking on a completely healthy feather. Cas rolled his spine and buried his face again, his cry muffled by cheap cotton. _That_... hadn't been a cry of pain; he'd saved hundreds of victims to know the difference. It'd been a cry of complete and utter _bliss_. 

Like Cas enjoyed having his wings touched.

The thought alone made him harder than a steel pipe. He should've stopped right there and left, shut the door on Cas, his body's fucked-up responses, and never thought of it again. But he couldn't. Not when Cas' wings started trembling, like every touch, every pulled feather, marched Cas closer toward the edge. Dean tore his eyes away and concentrated on his work, untangling, removing dead feathers, smoothing over the good ones. He tried to ignore Cas' responses to the grooming, each little noise—a sigh, a muffled groan, sometimes an unbridled cry—casting doubt on everything he knew about himself. Maybe he didn't just like women. Maybe it was guys, too.

Maybe he had feelings for his best friend.

He thought about that stupid play, which seemed less stupid with each of Cas' noises. What if those girls had been right? What if he and Cas... had a thing—and what difference could it possibly make now? They had too much going on between them to sort any of it out. It was complicated, and more than that, it was wrong. Wasn't it? 

He wasn't sure anymore.

Sometime during the plucking, the finger-combing, Cas had turned onto his belly, cheek smooshed against the pillow. He had his face turned away from him. Hiding, like Cas was suddenly keeping secrets from him. He wanted it, whatever it was. Maybe Cas' secret would tell him what this jumbled mess of a friendship meant, and if it was something more than that. 

Dean tugged on a healthy, gray feather as if that would solve everything. Cas pressed his hips into the bed and let out a shuddering groan. When Dean did it again, Cas couldn't seem to help but grind his pelvis into the mattress. The more Dean groomed him, the more Cas writhed on the bed, panting, arching his back into it, with a breathless mumble. Needing this, for himself— _them_ —Dean clawed both hands and stabbed his fingers into thick, long flight feathers.

He was on his back quicker than he could think.

Cas hovered above him, wings miraculously gone, and took in a fractured breath. Dean stared into blue, wild eyes as the world around them froze. Here they were, best friends, both hard as fuck, on the precipice of something _big_. Bigger than the both of them. Whatever happened next could ruin everything—or make them whole.

He sucked in a hard breath as Cas straddled his hips, hot and electric where their bodies connected. He wanted to touch him, but didn't know where to start, what to do. He should be a natural at this, talking with his hands, making someone else feel good. With Cas, he wanted it to be different. Not just a fast, hard fuck, but... something _else_. Meaningful, maybe. A lot more than that, too.

They stared at each other too long, asking too many silent questions. As much as he wanted them, he didn't need answers, not now. He just wanted to _touch_. Dean let his hands slide up Cas' thighs, fingers running over hard muscle, black slacks soft and smooth. Cas studied his hands as Dean dragged his thumbs along the insides. Missed a breath as Dean grazed the heat between his legs. Maybe he shouldn't be touching Cas like this. Maybe he should stop. Leave. They could go on pretending this never happened.

Except it kept happening.

Cas slid his hands over Dean's and rubbed thumbs over his knuckles. The touch was gentle, tentative, like Cas wasn't quite sure either. Then, it grew more confident. Cas guided his hands up to his hips. Dean let them rest there, patiently, and Cas closed his eyes as if he'd been waiting for this for a millennia. For Dean to touch him, knead him with unsteady fingers and pant uselessly between them. Dean swallowed and watched as Cas leaned forward, close, and braced his hands on either side of his head. His stare was intense, so full of needing whatever _this_ was that it hurt to look at him. So, he didn't. He felt instead. Up and down his thighs, the insides and outsides of them. When he brushed a thumb along Cas' hard cock, Cas jerked his hips forward. Hard.

The only answer Dean needed.

They fumbled at each other, reaching and grabbing, impatient, needing this now. They managed to unzip and unbutton their pants, palm their erections, and stare at each other with enough heat to warm the world. Cas licked his lips, and it was his only warning before Cas grabbed both their bare lengths with one hand. Dean kicked his head back and gasped—the feeling was fucking... _indescribable_. He acted on instinct and rocked his hips up into Cas' strong, tight hand. Their dicks... they slid together, and the friction, the heat—holy shit. The scorching need of release had already begun to build in his balls. Dean grabbed the back of Cas' neck and pulled him down into a rough kiss, crushing their mouths together like Cas was his only means of breathing. Cas groaned against his lips and forced his tongue inside his mouth. The kiss was wet, sloppy, and demanding, but beautiful in its recklessness. It was the culmination of everything that went unsaid between them. After six years of misunderstandings, of petty fighting and bullshit, it was all so suddenly clear.

He was in love with his best friend—and the thought made him lose it.

Dean spilled over Cas' hand with a shout, and Cas came with him. They pressed their foreheads together and rode bliss downward, until their breathing settled and everything returned to normal. Guilt and regret was second nature to him, but this time, it was nowhere to be found.

He stared at the ceiling with Cas nestled in his arms. He listened to his breathing and tangled fingers in his hair. He wouldn't settle for less than every day being like this. He wouldn't spend another minute, or hour, not loving the man next to him... for as long as Cas would let him. Or, _live_ to let him. 

Dean swallowed hard and squeezed Cas' shoulder. How long would they have? He let out a soft exhale, and Cas nuzzled into his neck as if he knew what Dean had been thinking. 

"Don't die on me." He murmured the plea into his skin.

"I won't," Cas whispered. "I promise."

Dean opened his mouth.

"I'm fine. I wouldn't lie to you about that, Dean."

He believed him. There was nothing but truth in his eyes.

:::

They held each other for a few hours, then stumbled out of bed, drunk on each other, and aimlessly wandered through the halls with smiles on their faces. Dean heard it first, far away and quiet, growing louder and more sultry as they made it toward the bunker's core. It was Bing Crosby's voice, smooth as whiskey, singing the lyrics to _White Christmas_. In the library, they found a dilapidated Christmas tree. The entire thing tilted to one side, its bent boughs hanging listlessly and without cheer. It had no ornaments on it, and no lights that he could see. It was as if the Grinch had personally paid them a visit.

Then it flared to life with white Christmas lights, and Dean's smile with it.

Sam popped out of hiding, wiping his palms on his jeans. He saw them and flashed them a grin. "What do you think?"

"Not bad," Dean confessed. It was beyond _not bad_. It was _awesome_.

"You're looking better, Cas." 

"Thank you, Sam," Cas said simply, giving the tree a skeptical look. He narrowed his eyes. "I don't understand your fascination with putting small lights on the fake likeness of a tree. What is the purpose?"

"It's how we celebrate Christmas." Dean ignored his confused frown and nodded toward Sam. "Where'd you find it?"

"In storage. It's a little worse for wear," Sam said, fluffing an artificial branch, "but it'll do. I thought it'd be nice to celebrate... as a family."

"I see," Cas said. "Perhaps I should go."

"Wait, what?" 

"Sam said 'family,' Dean."

"Yeah? And you're a part of the family." When Cas looked at him, confused, Dean huffed. "You're not going anywhere, Cas. You belong here, with us, celebrating Christmas. That's that."

Sam quickly nodded his agreement. Cas dropped his eyes and spared a quiet smile. He looked happy, and it made Dean happy.

"So," Dean said, clapping Sam on the shoulder. "What're we gonna decorate this thing with? I don't see any ornaments."

"There weren't any," Sam said, plucking something out of Dean's hair, "but we'll think of something."

Dean turned to look—and his eyes flew open wide. In his hand Sam held a black feather. The stupidest, happiest grin split his brother's ridiculous face in two. 

"What?" Dean asked, bewildered. "Not my fault Cas is shedding like a dog."

"I'm not _shedding_ , Dean. You—"

"Shut up, Cas," Dean hissed.

Grin wider than ever, Sam put the feather on a branch, the first Christmas ornament on their family tree. Dean smiled a little despite himself and when he looked over, Cas was smiling, too. The three of them spent the next fifteen minutes gathering ornaments, decorating the tree, and singing along with Christmas music. Spell ingredients sat nestled in the fake boughs, dream catchers and empty shotgun shell casings stuck on the pointy ends. Cas even found yellow pipe cleaners from who knows where and shaped them into something that resembled a star. 

Once they were done, Sam disappeared into the kitchen with another mischievous smirk on his face. He came out a couple of minutes later and put the finishing touch on their family tree; a red plastic party cup, Sam's chicken-scratch all over it.

"You really need to keep the door shut when you're—" Sam coughed in his fist.

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. Sam's smile got even bigger, more ridiculous, and he knew he wouldn't like whatever his brother had cooked up. Dean stepped closer to inspect the tree. So did Cas. They stared at the cup—

_First Christmas_  
CasDean  
2014 

—then glanced at each other. Dean turned Christmas red. Cas studied him through narrowed eyes, then turned his stare to the cup. He looked a little puzzled, regretful even, and clenched his jaw tighter. Dean felt his stomach twist. At any moment, his world would come crashing down around him. It didn't. Instead, it was made right when Cas entwined their fingers together.

Behind them, Sam practically squeaked. "Merry Christmas, guys!"

They were all together. Safe. Happy. As a family.

Him and Cas... they were more than that.

_Finally_.


End file.
